


displeasing

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, D/s, Impact Play, M/M, kink essentialism, nonsexual kink, undercover in a bdsm club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: This used to be simple: he used to be able to suss out what the mark wanted, reflect the mark's desires as if they were John's own. But back then he didn't have Finch glaring holes into his back, piercing through layers of lies.





	displeasing

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to rembrandtswife for catching my typos, and to Code16 and maculategiraffe for cheerleading <333
> 
> Consent issue tags for a character agreeing to kink they don't want for Reasons. The kink essentialism is both internalized and externalized.

Harold had taken John aside before the assignment. "Under no circumstances are you to do anything you find displeasing," he said, even his bow tie radiating his seriousness.

"Not my first rodeo, Finch," John had said lightly, and he'd meant it.

Now, though, he finds himself facing the mark, and it feels like Finch is staring at him from some undisclosed location. Probably he is. Normally John doesn't mind, but now...

"What about spanking?" the mark asks. His enthusiasm is already notably lowered.

John tries to say, "Sure," but the word catches in his throat. "Not so much," he says instead. He has to yell to be heard over the noise of the club, which isn't helping the mark's patience any.

"So what do you like?" the mark yells in return.

John has to think. Goddammit, this used to be simple: he used to be able to suss out what the mark wanted, reflect the mark's desires as if they were John's own. But back then he didn't have Finch glaring holes into his back, piercing through layers of lies. 

"Kneeling," he says, finally. "Being restrained. Shoved around." In the club's atmosphere he'd feel weird talking about his actual preferences, but this is close enough.

"Hair pulling?"

John nods, thankful for something he can wholeheartedly agree to.

The mark fists a hand in John's hair. John bends with him, letting the mark move him, giving over a little.

Then the mark snorts. "What's the fun if you're just gonna move with me?" He puts his hand on the side of John's face and pulls again, and now John has nowhere to go, nothing to do but feel his hairs trying to come out.

It feels a lot like saying what he wanted did. It wasn't a nice feeling.

John's endured worse by far. But the shitty thing is, the contrast is stronger now. Now he doesn't just have the alternative of Kara's scorn and maybe a nameless grave. If he bows out, Finch will find another way, probably.

"Mr. Reese," Finch says in his ear, sharply, and John winces and says, "Yeah, this isn't my thing."

The mark leaves the club shortly after. The assassins find him right outside the club, where John can quickly and efficiently get rid of them. He zip-ties them and calls Fusco.

The club is in a fairly grimy part of town. John doesn't lean against the wall as he waits. He lurks in shadow, grins when he hears Fusco curse from a little way away, and lingers until Fusco drives away with the perps.

Then John takes out his earpiece and heads back inside.

It doesn't take long for someone to approach him. "Haven't seen you here before," a guy yells next to him, swaying to the beat.

"New in town," John says, and three sentences later, the guy is detailing exactly how he wants to hit John.

There would be no point letting him. There's no lives on the line, and John doesn't get off on this, unless you count the tiny, shameful thrill when the guy's hand grips his arm and leads him to a nearby padded table.

The table is waist high. There's little stools on either side of it, and John puts his knees on them: more comfort than he expected. The guy rubs his hands down John's back, possessive, and John shivers. 

The first hit isn't bad. "On a scale of one to ten," the guy asks, "how much does it hurt?" and John comfortably answers, "Three."

(He doubts any of the guy's previous partners were ever professionally tortured, so he rounds the number up on that account.)

Pretty soon the pain ramps up. John's had worse, so much worse, but that doesn't make this fun for him. 

And the shitty thing is, he wants it to be fun. Wants to give this excitable guy something worthwhile, even if it's only a few minutes of a hurried hookup. Even if it's his pain.

"Quiet, aren't you," the guy comments, and hits harder. The burn would make John wince, but pain tends to make him go wooden. He vaguely remembers hearing others around him scream and wondering where they found the breath for it.

Then the guy takes a break, and asks, "Number?"

"Five," John says, and he's being honest. Yet when the guy asks, "Want more?" John can't help but shake his head.

The guy looks disappointed. "Look, I can try to go harder," he says.

John sighs. "Really not the problem."

He limps slightly on his way home - not his hookup's fault, a leftover from one of the assassins. He's not really surprised to find the light on when he opens the door to his apartment.

Finch looks just as crisp sitting on John's couch as he did in the library hours before. John takes a deep breath and steels himself to deal with Finch's disapproval. 

"Would you let me look at your leg?" Finch says.

John blinks, caught wrongfooted. He was preparing for Finch to ream him out - was anticipating it a little bit, if he's honest. It would've been nice to know somebody cared.

But of course Finch cares. He cares enough to show up at John's apartment (well, technically Finch is the one who owns it, and isn't that telling?) in the middle of the night to offer first aid.

John takes off his pants without another word. Maybe he wants to make Finch uncomfortable, hoping he'll leave.

(That's not what he's hoping for.)

Finch winces, but it's at the cut on John's leg. "Oh, dear. Yes, come close, this may need sutures."

He doesn't reprimand John for not coming home right away, so John decides to push. "I had some business at the club."

"Is that what they're calling it these days," Finch mutters, and, "turn to the light, please. Thank you. Where do you keep your peroxide?"

"You don't know?" John is a little distracted by Harold's hands on him, competent and capable. "You seem to know everything else about my life."

Harold's hand tightens, just a tiny bit, on John's leg. "I admit I don't," Harold says. "For one thing, I can't fathom why you'd go out and engage voluntarily in acts you admitted you had no desire for."

There's a glib reply on the tip of John's tongue, but he hesitates. Maybe because Harold doesn't sound pissed, or judgmental. He sounds curious, and maybe a little sad. "I thought he might make it worth my while," John says.

"Ah, I see." Harold works on him wordlessly for another moment. Then Harold says, "Did he?"

A beat passes, and John says, "No."

Harold's taken quickly to sewing people up. The pin-pricks of the needle are tiny points of pain, easy to ignore, especially since Harold doesn't want John hurting. John knows that in his bones. 

"That's a shame," Harold says, slowly. "I can't imagine anyone who'd refuse you."

John snorts. "And here I thought you were watching tonight."

"Some people," Harold informs him, "just have no taste." His voice is tart, but his hands are gentle, and he finishes up the work quickly. "There, all done. Do sit down."

John does, next to Harold. It feels good to be in his space. "You're saying you wouldn't refuse me?"

Harold looks him in the eye. "I think I can do better than that," he says. He reaches out to John, who takes his hand. "You've shown considerable courage tonight, and I don't mean taking down assassins. You expressed your desires, and faced rejection. The least I could do is the same: I want you." His hand tightens over John's. "I want you to kneel for me, and I want to touch you, and I want you to believe me when I say you are infinitely desirable to me."

John's mouth is dry. "The last one's going to take some time," he says, obscurely disappointed with himself, that he managed to find a boundary even in Harold's incredible generosity. 

Harold smiles at him. "And effort," he agrees. "But I'm willing to tackle the task if you are."

Slowly, by fractions of inches, John folds until his head is in Harold's lap. Harold pets his hair. John shivers over and over, overwhelmed by how simple this is, at the end, and how enormous.


End file.
